


WRAP ME IN THE FLAG

by halleycomets



Series: the devil and all his works [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Noir, Multi, im not saying who dies, its REALLY VIOLENT
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6456304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halleycomets/pseuds/halleycomets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CNN TICKER, June 29th, 1987: LIQUOR SALES MOGUL AND FREQUENT POLITICAL ADVOCATE ALEXANDER HAMILTON IS UNDER INVESTIGATION FOR POSSIBLE LINKAGE TO ORGANIZED CRIMINAL ACTIVITY * TIES TO THE WASHINGTON CRIME "FAMILY" CONSIDERED "PROBABLE" BY FBI * THOUGH NOT ENOUGH TO ARREST, FBI CONTINUES TO COLLECT EVIDENCE *</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> so everybody, jordan yeezymandias here, i'm writing a mafia au for the sole purpose of utilizing alt alexander hamilton oscar isaac so thats who you ought to imagine because listen the mind is willing but the flesh is weak
> 
> this takes place in the 80's, alexander is from cuba, it's very noir and it's completely overwrought and full of gratuitous violence so TW on blood and gore but hopefully it'll be in good fun. it's probably gonna get Real though, because i suck. anyway please enjoy, i'm indefinite on chapter count at this point bc im here to have a good time. 
> 
> thank you for reading and PLEASE LEAVE ME COMMENTS

A draft from the open window in the back of Hamilton's office tousled his thick, black curls as he sat behind his desk, upright, immobile. He felt it through the hole in the back of his leather chair, lighting up the open wound in his back. Blood seeped through his fingers, webbed tight against his stomach. It seeped through his teeth, staining his lip. A drop tracked down his chin.

His body felt not like a body but like a quickly rusting series of parts, his whole self a stoic automaton in which the eyes were the only pieces capable of moving beyond the pain. He looked to the clock first. A strange clarity allowed him to take the time, though he struggled for a second with the analog. 4:43 AM – maybe 4:44. Just under it, caught in his glance, was the painting he kept, a gift from Mr. Washington. A reproduction of Lami's _Storming a Redoubt at Yorktown._ He knew that Burr had put his hand on the frame just twenty minutes ago, admiring the painting as he gave his murderer's soliloquy.

A bloodsoaked hand twitched. He could write a note – he challenged himself to think of three words. “Burr touched painting.” “Painting Burr prints.” “Painting incriminates Burr.” He closed his eyes and gave a grunt. He didn't have the energy for _incriminates_. Alexander had to accept that if he had really wanted to write a note, he wouldn't have let Burr into the building in the first place.

His eyes fell on his desk – on the landline, laid neatly in the receiver as if nothing had happened around it. His eyes stung as they welled. He _did_ want to make a phone call.

Alexander balled up a fist and drew it away from his wound; his body seared as he leaned forward, and he thumped gracelessly back against the chair before gathering the gumption to try again.

He spit blood and reached out to the phone.

“ _Fuck,”_ he groaned, his curse tasting like copper. He gritted his teeth and made the final push; his hand slipped around the receiver as he knocked the phone off and tried to dial, smearing the off-white plastic with blood. He was having difficulty remembering even her number now. Other things, less useful things, swarmed his mind and landed on it like black gnats – the smell of body odor on a hot packed raft from Cuba, the sound of Lieutenant Laurens' muffled laughter from the mudhole next to his in Vietnam, the taste of a mint julep that would be the last drink Thomas Jefferson ever served at Monticello. George Washington's handshake, firm and full of promises he wouldn't keep. Promises rimmed with cocaine and heroin and cooked books, with gunpowder, with _stacks and stacks of hard cash,_ rimmed, like the salt on a margarita.

Why had he come to America, if only to die?

He wouldn't write a note. He had written everything he could. But he would make a call.

“ _Eliza.”_

 


	2. labors and dangers, p.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Washington had been a needy Captain to his Lieutenant -- Hamilton this, Hamilton that, Hamilton at my beck and call -- and that dynamic was among the things they had brought home with them from Vietnam. Alexander folded his hands and looked at his reflection in his shoes, cracking a smile in spite of himself. He acted as if he didn't take validation from the trust and confidence Washington had in him, like he hadn't determined his value entirely by the way he was valued by Washington as a kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO i've been chipping away at this for a couple days and it was meant to include another two scenes, but i really wanted to get a Proper Update out so i decided to divide the chapter into two (hence the p.1). there's a time skip, alex isn't bleeding, george washington sucks and i take him to task, and there's a whole lot of stuff about a Real Painting bc im really lame.
> 
> much thanks also to jackson @dggeoff on tumblr for his primary source help on cuban immigration and cuban spanish and i plan for him to get a gay little cred in every chapter i use what he teaches me.
> 
> thanks again for reading and PLEASE LEAVE ME COMMENTS THERE WERE SO MANY on the prologue and it cleared my skin and saved my crops so thank you :' ))
> 
> one last crime, etc etc

NEW YORK CITY  
8 YEARS EARLIER   
  
Alexander stood at the office door with pursed lips, fooling with the gold chain bracelet on his wrist in agitation. He glanced over his shoulder. There had been a lot of people in front of him in line to meet with the big man, but there was no one behind him. Everyone was in the marble-floored parlor of Washington's Manhattan estate, dancing to the brass ensemble under the glitter of a chandelier and flutes of champagne.   
  
He hated to wait at all, but especially like this. The event had been thrown for the 15th anniversary of Mount Vernon Spirits, Inc -- if Washington wanted to sit out his own party, that was his prerogative, but Alexander had people to see. He rarely got to speak to Lafayette and Mulligan these days. Alexander knew Laf to be attached at the hip to Washington even during the war, and Hercules had his own operation running alongside the Jewish haberdashers in Queens. He understood why they were elusive, but he had intended to gather them around tonight for catchup, both business and personal. Though Vernon Inc may have been the birthday girl, her little cousin (Alexander's own offshoot, St. Croix Liquors, and all the illegal rackets it entailed) was to make an appearance.   
  
It wasn't to be. His presence had been requested by Bossman himself before he could give his brothers in arms more attention than a hug and a thump on the back. Washington had been a needy Captain to his Lieutenant -- Hamilton this, Hamilton that, Hamilton at my beck and call -- and that dynamic was among the things they had brought home with them from Vietnam. Alexander folded his hands and looked at his reflection in his shoes, cracking a smile in spite of himself. He acted as if he didn't take validation from the trust and confidence Washington had in him, like he hadn't determined his value entirely by the way he was valued by Washington as a kid. He had known then that gaining Washington's favor was his ticket to success: a decorated commanding officer, a man from a multi-million-dollar business legacy spoken of in hushed tones in camp. A black man who might be inclined to play benefactor to a talented Latino whose money had all gone to a college degree before he was drafted. The other soldiers had started to call him Columbia, for his impressive alma mater that seemed useless to him in the Pacific mud. He hated that -- it would set him off, get him started on his escape from Cuba at fifteen ("The sharks, don't start with the sharks," rich boy Laf had said, as if it was a joke, as if Alexander hadn't seen the fins like the prongs of the Devil's pitchfork poking out of the water, ready to drag him to Hell). He had been to college, but he wouldn't be diminished into a College Boy. Columbia had been paid for by people who saw something in him. It had been a very expensive stepping stone, just like George Washington would be.   
  
Things had gotten a little more paternal between them since they had gone into business together.

The office door opened.  He looked up with a start.

“He’s ready for you, Mr. Hamilton.”  Washington’s valet, a fellow member of their company from the war, stood apart from the frame as someone Alexander didn’t recognize walked out past them.

“Thanks Will.  How you doin’ lately?”

“Holding up.”

Alexander looked him up and down.  He had always known Will’s face to be held firm; he couldn’t remember him once smiling wide.  “Good.  Take it easy.”

Will Lee had always been an uncomfortable reminder of George Washington’s priorities to Alexander.  He had been one of the most unflinching soldiers in their squad, following Washington into shit even Lafayette balked at -- but he didn’t have money, connections or an Ivy League law degree, so the best Washington could do once they were discharged was make him his valet, expected to refer to the snotty little lieutenant he had once served with on equal terms as Mr. Hamilton.  A poor man of color could still only go so far here.  It disagreed with Alex, fundamentally.  This was the United Fucking States of America; he and thousands of other people had risked life and limb to come here, to make something of themselves in the land of opportunity.  Sheer dumb luck should have nothing to do with it.  It was supposed to be about _will_.  Will to survive and thrive.

“Hamilton,” came that careful, oaken voice from on high, standing out of his chair behind his great walnut desk.  The sound drew Alexander up, shoulders square and back stiff, as if he had been attached to strings.  He had a whole banter planned, a playful jab at being drawn away from the party laced with his actual discontent, make it clear to Washington that he wasn’t to be ordered around anymore.

“Sir,” was the only thing that made the cutting room. His lips tightened. It irritated the inside of his stomach every time he had to remind himself not to salute.

“I know there’s a party out there,” Washington continued, unfolding a beautifully carved humidor in front of him.  “Cigar?”

Alex could smell them, even dry. Cohibas from embargoed Havana. Extremely expensive. Highly illegal.  “No thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” He lit his own, slowly, letting Alex wait until he had taken a decent puff. “Anyway, I called you in here to give you a word of warning.”

“Listen, Mister Washington, if this is about my last conference with Thomas Jefferson, you gotta understand it was 90 degrees in Charlottesville and he was _goading_ me-”

“That’s because he was making a play at being head of this family.”

Alexander choked.

“Should I open a window?”  Washington laughed.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

“That’s fuckin’ ridiculous.  The huevos on that guy are without god damn par, like he’d _ever_ get within an inch of eclipsing you.”

“I’m stepping down, Alexander.”

His mouth ran dry. He jutted his chin. “You’re what?”

Washington took another pause to smoke.  “Retiring,” he added.

Alex hurried all the way up to the desk and leaned over it, his hands splayed stiff as rigor mortis.  “Mr. Washington, you can’t do that.  You can’t leave- the Southerners will eat us alive, they pretend we’re partners but they’re already taking bites out of our ass.  They’ll say you were too weak, you know that’s what they’ll say.”

“Then let ‘em.”  Looking up at him this close, Alex could clearly see how old Washington had gotten.  Silver had spread all through his beard and into his hair and brows -- even his eyelashes seemed to have turned gray.  Deep lines creased his mouth as he spoke.  “John Adams will take an interim seat, settle all my affairs with Jefferson.”

“Adams?  They hate each other!”

“But they have an understanding.  Why are you playing stupid like this, Hamilton? It looks bad on you. Not necessary.”

He was right.  Alex knew all this, all the interpersonal relationships and dealings behind Mount Vernon; he knew it well enough to find his place in it, well enough to manipulate it. Now he was just babbling.  “Sorry,” he sighed.  

“Get it together, take a seat. You’re gonna want to hear the rest of what I have to say.”

As much as he hated the idea of being even smaller than Washington, he set his jaw and obliged.

“You know, I don’t have any kids, Hamilton. I’ve been kind to Martha’s, but they’re not my kids, you know what I’m saying?”

“Sure.”

“It’s almost fortunate… Because when you have kids, you don’t get to choose your successor.  You get whatever set of genes you and your wife put together, and you’re responsible for making sure that that person -- whoever they turn out to be -- knows how to get the job done when the time comes for them to do it.”

Alexander’s eyes narrowed.  He began to pick his lip.

“You have worked with me for almost twenty years.”

He peeled harder.

“You have _served_ with me.”

He tasted blood.

“I’ll be honest with you,” Washington continued, making his way around the desk to sit on the corner.  “I hate this awful stinking city.  You can’t sleep.  You can’t breathe.  There’s 400 acres of farmland in north Virginia with my name on it, waiting for me, do you understand?”

“No, sir, but I’ll pretend for the sake of argument.”

“Boy, do not be difficult.  I’m about to make you-”

“I’m forty years old, Mr. Washington-”

“Hamilton!”

Washington stood above the echo of his raised voice, the lamp casting a long shadow over Alexander.  Alex looked up at him, a practiced stillness of his face concealing a swallow.

“I was under the impression… That you had ambitions. That you were willing to do anything necessary to be somebody, and not only that, but that you had the brains and the ferocity required to do it. I didn’t raise you that way.” Washington pointed at him. “You did. But I have _seen_ you since you were eighteen, and I have _brought_ you where you are, because I knew a day like this would come when I might not have anybody better.”

In spite of himself, Alexander’s chest swelled. _I might not have anybody better_. It sloshed in his head like a thick, sweet cocktail.  He smoothed his palms against the arms of his chair trying to quell the buzz.

“Adams is an effective temporary solution, but he is _not_ a leader I will trust. He knows his time is limited and he is aware I’m making arrangements for someone permanent. So do you want this chair?”  Washington’s big, knotted finger jutted to his own seat behind the desk.  “Or not?”

Alexander tore his eyes from Washington’s and looked at the chair.  Huge, Italian leather, studded in brass. _Did he want it?_ He could feel its heat.  

But he was drawn behind the chair, to a painting of a battle Washington kept hanging in a heavy gold frame. He had looked at more closely in the past; it was of the Battle of Yorktown, a snapshot portrayal of the Continental Army storming a British redoubt -- a pile of dead and dying redcoats cowered in the corner of the canvas as the rest of it was flooded with blue, of Continental uniforms and the theatrically clouded sky. The central figure in the painting, though, was a revolutionary in a long blue coat planting a flag square on the edge of the redoubt, at the very top.  It billowed its way into focus. It was undoubtedly what the viewer was meant to see, was meant to take, meant to remember. The man who planted it was merely an extension of the pole -- but there he was, and Alexander stared at him, and could have sworn his tiny shoulders hunched at being singled out for the first time.

George Washington was a man beyond consequences, beyond restrictions, beyond any rules.  George Washington was free to do whatever he pleased, whenever. Money allowed him. Power allowed him. He had gained for himself an extreme form of freedom, potentially the ultimate. What else was Alexander here for? George Washington was the man who would plant the flag.  And so was any man who occupied his space.

“If you want the painting, you can have that too,” said Washington.

 _Did he want it?_ Of fucking course he did.

“I’ll take it.”  Alexander left his chair and held out his hand to shake. Still at Washington’s chest, he barely felt like he had stood. “And I’ll take the job.”  
  
Washington took it, his hand firm and enveloping, rough with calluses -- maybe, Alex thought, from holding a flag in the ground too long. “Thank you, Alexander.  You make this infinitely easier on me.”

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE COMMENT I LOVE IT :' )


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